Some of these bad boys have been staring back at me for almost six years, one book of poetry for nine. My list of books that I want to read keeps getting longer and my interests keep changing and people keep putting more stuff on YouTube—if I sit myself down and have a long, hard, honest think about it… it is unlikely that I’ll ever read these.

They’ve been with me, pages unturned, for long enough that I’ve grown attached to them just as objects. My favorite box to unpack with I move is always the book box(es), because it’s so satisfying to fill up a shelf with things I’m familiar with. But they’ve been aesthetic mementos for so long that I’ve forgotten to think of them as books. As things with words and knowledge that some poor soul poured hours of work into and that some poor trees poured however much pulp into. 

But I still probably won’t ever read a few of these. So, I’ll just pretend like I did.

Here are my reviews of books I’ll never read:

Selected Essays, Letters, and Poems by Charles Lamb (1833)

I bought this at a used bookstore in the village of Hay-on-Wye in Wales the summer after high school. It’s almost pocket sized and it’s leatherbound and I got it because Charles Lamb is mentioned in one of my favorite books (that I have actually read), The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. For all those reasons it is absolutely functioning as a keepsake. Let’s just say I’ve read it.

This collection presents the full breadth of what Lamb does best. His pithy, down-to-earth observations of everyday life feel contemporary once you acclimate to his somewhat overburdened 19th(?)-century style. His poetry, though at times long-winded, captures the beauty in the mundane as well as the pain in life as a middle-class creative type in Georgian Britain. The binding and typesetting are exquisite.                      4 stars.

The Times of My Life by Betty Ford (1978)

This was given to me by my supervisor after I finished an internship at the Gerald Ford Museum in college. It’s signed (fun) and I learned enough during that internship to know that Betty Ford was a very interesting woman. But I don’t think I shall ever get around to reading her book.

The former first lady, with Chris Chase, has gifted readers with a glimpse into a truly unique life. (Granted, all lives are technically unique, but let’s not let philosophy get in the way of appreciating this fine book.) Mrs. Ford at turns dazzles, delights, and moves us with her characteristic honesty and charm. I was especially tickled by that one anecdote about a dog probably. Readers looking for a detailed record of the specific times of her life events should look elsewhere—she actually specifies very few times.                        3.5 stars.

Dubliners by James Joyce (1914)

I bought this book after reading a couple of its short stories in a high school literature class and have not touched it since (apart from packing and unpacking it six to eight times).

Joyce, perhaps better known for his day-in-the-life, we’ll-all-judge-you-a-bit-if-you-say-you-enjoyed-it-actually novel Ulysses, bestows upon the literary cannon a cast of characters both real and bizarre, relatable and alien. From the grimy, grimy streets to the spooky, spooky manor to the stuffy, stuffy civic buildings, each story presents a slice of Dublin that I assume is true to life—or at least true to art. And isn’t that the most…good…thing…that a book…can…be?                                                                                                 5 stars.

2 Comments

  1. Ansley Kelly

    So relatable and a very clever idea for a post—thanks for sharing!

    Reply
  2. Lauren Peters

    A delightful read! Thank you for sharing!

    Reply

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